Do I Detect Desire?
by natalieashe
Summary: Sherlock, Lestrade and John have been asked to assist with a case 'up north' - a suicide that may in fact be murder. Inconvenient feelings are still simmering between the Detectives. Sequel to 'Whisky & Ice Cream Don't Mix' and 'The Eighties Experiment' - will probably be the last in this series. Sherstrade. Rated for sexual language and the odd expletive, though not explicit.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This takes place about three weeks after 'The Eighties Experiment' and it will probably be the last story in this series. I own nothing to do with Sherlock, or any of the bands/brands that may be mentioned in this work. Reviews are welcome :-)**

Greg gasped as his back hit the wall and moaned as Sherlock's lips crashed against his eager mouth. The detective's hands had made short work of his belt and were tugging at the zip of his trousers. Greg batted the fumbling fingers away and deftly unzipped himself, grabbing Sherlock's arse cheeks with both hands and grinding their groins together. God he was so ready for this. He was so...

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked curiously, glancing across at Greg slumped in the passenger seat.

"Wha-?" Greg forced his eyes open, back to the present reality of the tedious car journey towards Durham. His head was lolling forward, making his neck ache, but at least he hadn't been drooling. Well, not literally…

"You were groaning. Then you said my name."

Greg blushed hugely grateful for his jacket that lay across his lap becoming very aware his jeans were pretty uncomfortable. He slid a hand beneath the coat and discreetly tried to adjust himself. Sherlock noticed of course, smirking at him. Couldn't he get anything past the detective?

"Not a nightmare then." He observed.

"Always a bloody nightmare where you're concerned," he muttered under his breath. "Just concentrate on the road dickhead. Don't want you crashing my car."

"It's a wreck anyway. Why didn't we take the train again?"

"Because the public purse insists Scotland Yard travel by the cheapest means possible Sherlock, and the cost of train fares for three people plus a hire car is far in excess of the mileage rate. Also it's just easier to chuck suitcases in the boot than it is to lug them on and off trains. I prefer my own space, my own music."

"If you can call that music."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in distaste at the Clash CD that was currently playing on the crackly car stereo. Greg noticed he had turned the volume down while he'd been sleeping, probably to better hear whatever Greg had been mumbling in his dream. _Christ_! It was Sherlock's fault he was so tired anyway, making him run halfway across London in the early hours to make an arrest that simply _had_ to be made before their trip today. Donovan could have handled it perfectly well, but Sherlock had to be there to glory in being correct. Again!

Greg swapped out the CD replacing it with Duran Duran and studiously avoiding Sherlock's startled glance. He'd ordered it express delivery from the internet after their night out and played it almost constantly since. He resisted the temptation to skip straight to track eight on the grounds he couldn't predict Sherlock's reaction and he _was_ driving Greg's car... They would get there eventually anyway. There were other lines in other songs that reminded him of Sherlock too - 'I'll be your homing angel I'll be in your head' from track three - 'sometimes you're needed badly so please come back again' from track five, 'it just took me out on a limb and I don't really know what I'm doing here' from track seven. You could make any lyric fit if you were sappy enough he supposed.

How many times had he been the one to pluck this man from the very jaws of destruction and drag him back to the relative safety of murder cases from Scotland Yard? He'd never considered himself Sherlock's guardian angel until he got all soppy over him. He really was a teenage girl in a grown man's body lately. If he started plastering his bedroom wall with Sherlock's innumerable custody mug shots then he'd know he was truly lost.

The third of their trio issued an almighty snore from the back seat loud enough to wake the dead; as it was, it jolted the sleeper awake. John yawned and stretched.

"Are we nearly there yet?" he asked in a whiny sing-song voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him in the rear view mirror making John chuckle.

"Sorry, couldn't resist. Used to drive our parents crazy when Harry and I would torment them with that."

"Just passed Doncaster. Another hour and a half maybe." Greg supplied helpfully.

John groaned. It felt like they'd been on the road for hours! Sherlock's argument that the A1 was a more interesting road to drive north on than the M1 was plain invalid. It was still an interminable stretch of bloody Tarmac as far as John was concerned. He wasn't the most patient traveler but he couldn't read to pass the time as the motion of the car made him queasy, so his only options were to sleep, or to gaze out at the endless monotonous fields. Being the shortest of the three men, and the most easy-going, he had drawn the short straw and ended up crushed in the back seat where he'd been since they left London four hours ago apart from a brief toilet stop.

"Stop at the next services; I need to pee."

"Again? Christ we only stopped two hours ago."

"My bladder is older than yours and I drank half a gallon of coffee, so yeah, again!"

Ten minutes in the Gents to remedy the pressing need in his trousers that stubbornly refused to subside sounded bloody marvelous to Greg. Take advantage of the memory of that dream before it faded. He flushed again just thinking about it and cast a furtive glance at Sherlock who for once was concentrating on the road ahead, mouth moving silently. Surprised Greg realized he was soundlessly singing along. Interesting that he knows this album.

"Actually I could do with a break. I can take over driving for a bit afterwards. We may as well get breakfast too; I'm starving."

Sherlock sighed dramatically but complied, swerving into a small service station a few minutes later. It was little more than a roadside restaurant with a newsstand and fuel but it had facilities. John made a dash for the Gents, Greg following more slowly with his jacket carried awkwardly in front of him.

"Should've left that in the car," Sherlock grinned, stalking off towards the restaurant. John emerged as Greg shouldered his way through the door looking significantly less strained now his bladder was relieved.

"I'll order breakfast, get you the works."

The toilets were mercifully empty as Greg bolted the door of the lone cubicle. Maybe wanking in a public toilet was a bit seedy but if it made the rest of the journey more bearable he'd bear the shame. He tried to pluck a favorite fantasy from the recesses of his brain to help things along - one that involved breasts and feminine curves preferably – and things were progressing nicely when he heard the door open. _Crap!_ Ignoring the sound of peeing from the other side of the door he tried to concentrate on thoughts of lush lips doing obscene things until...

"Need a hand in there."

"I'm fine! Sod off Sherlock!"

A deep chuckle from the other side of the door banished any curvy thoughts, replacing them with the '5 interesting ways to use a plum and gold scarf on a consulting detective' fantasy that he'd been trying _really_ hard not to think about since the night at Reflex that ended with a slow dance, gazing into each other's eyes, and a 'kiss-that-probably-wasn't-a-kiss' on his forehead. Since that night - since the end of the bloody song, in fact - Sherlock had slipped into some sort of cocky-git mode around Greg when they were alone that the DI was _seriously_ considering punching out of him. It really didn't help that Sherlock-bloody-Holmes seemed to be invading his most private thoughts day and night without invitation. He _really_ needed to find a woman and get laid soon!

"I'll be out in a minute."

"Only taken thirty years," Sherlock snorted.

"In the name of all that is holy, will you please _piss off_?"

The outer door squeaked and he let out a breath, his forehead resting against the door. Bloody Sherlock! Thirty seconds, a minute...

"You're still bloody there, aren't you?"

Another deep chuckle and this time the door banged shut, footsteps receding. _That man has no sense of boundaries!_

An hour later they were back on the road, replete following a full English breakfast and copious amounts of tea that Greg joked would require another loo stop before they reached their destination. Greg was driving, more than happy to be back behind the wheel if it meant no more embarrassing naps. John had moved up to the passenger seat and Sherlock was awkwardly folded into the back, his lanky legs stretched sideways, head resting against the window, pillowed on Greg's jacket.

"So what kind of man is this DI Waterstone? Is he likely to be accommodating?"

"_She_ asked for you so I imagine she'll give you anything you ask for. Don't think she'll be a pushover though - you'll have to mind your manners and she'll expect you to keep her updated. _I'll_ expect you to behave and not upset her. She's a friend, as well as a colleague."

"I'll be my most charming self."

"That's what I'm afraid of. We have a meeting with her at headquarters at ten tomorrow, then we'll visit the scene where the body was found. We'll have to rely on the autopsy report and the crime scene photos unfortunately - the body was released and cremated last week before the letter arrived. There's a copy on the file."

"Why would someone claim responsibility for a murder that had already been ruled suicide? The case was closed, no suspicious circumstances. They were in the clear, so why admit it?" John mused.

"No idea, but we're here to find out. Any theories Sherlock? Sherlock?"

John turned in his seat to see the detective sound asleep snuggled into the DI's coat.


	2. Chapter 2

It was closer to two and a half hours later when they finally pulled up at the hotel. Greg had found himself growing more frustrated with each delay as they crawled north and muttered non-stop curses for a full half hour when they found themselves stationery on the road due to a breakdown in the contraflow; one of his pet hates was lane closures for road works on a Sunday when not a soul could be seen actually working. It was raining and he'd forgotten to replace the split wiper blades, so the view through the windscreen was constantly smeared, he was desperate for a cigarette and the other two men were still _breathing_! John had wisely shut up and gone back to moping at the dreary landscape after the third time Greg had snapped at him. _Ok, so he may be feeling a tiny bit te__nse..._

Greg watched Sherlock scramble from the back seat and stretch out his cramped muscles. He pulled on his black jacket, ruffled up his hair and stalked off to the hotel reception to check them in, leaving the others to unload their luggage. How the hell did the man still manage to look so immaculate after almost eight hours stuck in a car? Greg retrieved his own jacket from the back seat and patted it down searching for his cigarettes, which were missing of course, no doubt having accidentally fallen into Sherlock's pocket. The only thing that had kept Greg sane for the last half hour of the journey was the thought of lighting up one of those precious sticks.

"That cocky bastard has stolen my cigarettes," he wailed to John, who was almost head first in the boot of the car trying to retrieve Sherlock's ridiculously large suitcase.

"What?" he said, voice muffled through Sherlock's scarf that he'd wound around his neck to save from trying to carry that too. Greg seized it and pulled, almost throttling John when it failed to slip free of his neck. "Ow, what was that for?"

"I'm holding it to ransom!" Greg declared furiously. "He can have it back when he returns my bloody cigarettes, or it goes up in smoke!" He fished in his pocket for his lighter before realizing that too was missing and let out a screech that caused a couple at the far end of the car park to hurry away in alarm.

"For god's sake Greg, I thought you'd given up again? Just help me with these bags and I'll make him give them back ok?"

Greg snatched up his bag in one hand and John's in the other, leaving his friend to wrestle Sherlock's out of the boot and onto the ground. He was lucky it had wheels because he'd never be able to carry it.

"What the hell has he got in here? A body?"

As they approached the glass door, they could see Sherlock at the desk, long arms waving in agitation at the poor receptionist. With a deep sense of foreboding the two men entered and dropped their bags by the counter.

"No, no, no! That won't do! I booked three single rooms, not two doubles. A double bed is no good for them – _he's_ not gay, and _he's_ not sure!"

"Sherlock!"

"What the fuck?"

That was _it!_ Greg launched himself at Sherlock who deftly side-stepped leaving the DI grappling with empty air. He whirled furiously, intent on another go, but found John standing solidly in his way with a stern look on his face.

"Stand down!" John commanded, planting the flat of his hand firmly on Greg's chest. He held out his hand palm-up towards Sherlock and barked "Cigarettes!" Sherlock slapped Greg's precious box into John's outstretched palm and John handed them over to Greg who was still staring at him in astonishment.

"Right, Sherlock – you, sit over there on that sofa. Greg – you go outside, smoke. Now!"

Both men hurried to obey as John turned his most pleasant and harmless smile on the dark-haired receptionist.

"Impressive. I thought I was going to have to call the police," she said.

"Believe it or not, we _are_ the police, or at least he is." He nodded at Greg's retreating back. "Army training comes in handy sometimes. They're just tired and hungry – been a long drive up from London."

"Tough run. You sound like their dad."

"You have no idea! I have a ten week old daughter and I already know she's going to be a breeze compared to those two."

"I'm the mother of two teenage boys, I think I have a fair idea," she laughed. "You men – you might grow older, but you never grow up. So, let's sort out these rooms for you, shall we?"

Less than ten minutes later Greg was standing by John's side as he signed all the paperwork for the rooms, one of which the receptionist promised would be converted to a twin as soon as she could send housekeeping round. Greg was very impressed with John's efficiency, though still a bit embarrassed to find he would be sharing a room, even if it was with John. Sherlock still scowled at them from the sofa.

"Does he always sit and stay like that when you tell him to?"

"Hardly."

John tossed a room key to Sherlock and headed off down the corridor with Greg and the detective trailing after him. Ever since the night out at the eighties club there had been tension between Sherlock and the DI and John was getting tired of breaking up their little tiffs. He was pretty sure it stemmed from the attraction between them and neither having a clue what to do with it. So far, Greg seemed to be trying his best to ignore it, and Sherlock, damn him, was winding Greg up with some ridiculous strutting around trying to prove how absolutely fantastic he was. If they weren't being so annoying, John could almost find it funny. They left Sherlock at his door and headed across the corridor to their own room. Housekeeping were already there efficiently reconfiguring the double bed into two singles and making them up swiftly. When the two young women left, Greg slumped on the bed by the window, claiming it.

"I'll just take this one then shall I?" grumbled John. He pulled off his shoes and socks and lay down covering his eyes with his forearm.

"What the hell is wrong with him? And how the hell do you keep your patience?"

"Hmm? Who says there's anything wrong with him?"

"He's not normal. He's like a big overgrown child-genius that's so bloody annoying I want to murder him or –"

"Or shag him senseless?"

"Thanks for that." Greg threw himself back on the bed and glared at the ceiling.

They were silent for a while until John asked, "Why do you say he's not normal?"

"Well he isn't is he? Superior intellect, appalling social skills, no filter so half of what he says is completely inappropriate. It's no wonder people think he's a freak."

John rolled onto his side facing Greg, his eyes narrowed. "Is that what you think?"

"No! God, he drives me mad a lot of the time, makes me angry, but I've known him nigh on ten years now and I like him for all his weirdness. And I do think he's hot! I just don't understand him sometimes. Most of the time. "

John chuckled at the 'hot' comment.

"Sometimes I give a bit of friendly guidance when he's being particularly inappropriate, but that's as far as it goes. I'm not a saint though Greg – even my tolerance will only go so far! I'll make sure he apologizes to the receptionist."

"What about me?"

"Yeah, you should apologize to her too." John laughed as Greg's pillow landed squarely on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Warning for homophobic language, violence and cursing**

Greg leaned by the door to the reception area and watched Sherlock chatting to the receptionist through the small window. He guessed he'd made that apology John had insisted upon because they were now laughing at something she had said. _God, he really is gorgeous when he laughs - his whole face lights up._

"Planning on telling him any time soon or just stalking him now?"

He jumped guiltily at John's voice behind him, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming yet again. _Get a grip, Greg!_ He pushed through the door and approached the desk preparing to make his own apology to the woman, but before he could reach her Sherlock stood in his way with an odd look on his face. He looked almost- contrite? Sherlock licked his lips nervously - a quick dart of his tongue that had Greg thinking of fascinating uses for it that left him feeling a bit warm around the ears.

"I-I'm sorry for being an arse."

"Um, ok. Sorry for trying to thump you."

"Right. Now you two have kissed and made up, can we go?"

They found a pub serving food and showing the previous day's Arsenal match for Greg. Arsenal was 3-0 up by half time and Greg was matching each goal with a pint, leaning against the bar and chatting with the barman who was a student from London. This was his environment, where he felt most at home, and for the first time in ages he felt content, yelling at the ref with a fellow fan and downing a few pints. He ordered more drinks, carrying another pint for John and a half for Sherlock - _bloody lightweight_ - across to their table. John had found a discarded newspaper and Sherlock was moodily balancing a bar mat on the edge of the table, flicking it and catching it.

"Good game?" Asked John looking up from a story about dodgy builders conning old ladies out of their life savings.

"Cracking! If you two want to head off somewhere else I'm fine on my own, you know? Don't stay just for me."

"Oh right. Thought I might walk up to the Cathedral, stretch my legs."

"We're staying." Sherlock said sharply, earning a puzzled look from the other two. "I'm watching the- _thing_ on the TV."

"The football?"

"Yes. The team in red is winning."

Greg chuckled at Sherlock squinting over his shoulder at the screen. He knew the detective had no interest in the sport at all and probably didn't even understand the rules so he was baffled at his determination to watch the game.

"Well done on that outstanding deduction. Want to come lean on the bar with me and I'll explain what's going on?"

"I'm fine here. You were busy talking."

"Oh right, yeah." He grinned across at the barman giving him thumbs up when he set another pint on the counter for him. "Davy - nice kid, funny. Anyway, back in a minute!"

He walked off in the direction of the Gents, returning to the bar a few minutes later to find his pint missing and Davy looking uncomfortable.

"Um, your boyfriend took it across to your table."

"My what-? Bloody hell! What's he playing at _now_? Sorry."

Sherlock was looking very pleased with himself, lounging casually on the bench unconsciously stroking a long pale finger up and down Greg's pint glass. He caught Greg's eye and turned on his full force smile, raising his hand to his mouth and pressing his condensation chilled finger to the tip of his tongue. Dear god, was that the sexiest thing Greg had witnessed in years? He almost choked when Sherlock took a long swallow of his drink - _Greg's_ pint - never breaking eye contact. He wondered fleetingly if he wasn't the only one who needed a bit of Dutch courage.

"Um..."

"Yeah, see you later. Enjoy the second half," said Davy.

Sherlock didn't drop his eyes until Greg slid onto the bench seat next to him, and then it was only to gaze at his own fingers lazily caressing Greg's glass once more. The action was causing seriously strange sensations in the DI's stomach.

"Where'd John go?" He asked nervously.

"For a walk. Said he'd see us back at the hotel."

"Oh ok. Um, you want your own drink?"

Sherlock's chuckle definitely sent a shiver through him. He took another long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing reflexively.

"I was planning on sharing yours for now. I'll buy more when the game resumes."

"The g-game...?"

"You were watching football, were you not?"

Christ! He'd forgotten all about the bloody football. Brought slightly back down to Earth he glanced at the TV where the players were already passing the ball around the pitch.

"We're staying?"

"Of course. You love football, why would we leave halfway through a game?"

Oh god, cocky-git Sherlock had now added outright flirting to the mix! If he continued caressing that glass Greg was going to find himself with a bit of a trouser problem! He suddenly wasn't bothered about the game but he definitely need a bit of space to process what was going on, and leaving now to go who knows where, to do god knows what... Well his brain was freaking out slightly even if other parts of his body were considering it.

"We'll stay," he said, mentally kicking himself.

If Sherlock was disappointed his smile didn't show it. Greg reached for his drink, curling his fingers around the glass expecting Sherlock to let go, but he showed no sign of moving his hand. _Bloody hell, now what do I do? We can't sit here like idiots holding the same glass! If I insist, will he resist?_ He could feel Sherlock challenging him to make the next move but hell if he could think what it should be.

"Um, Sherlock...?"

His voice quavered embarrassingly, ending in a hideous intake of breath when the detective's chilled, damp fingertips slid over his hand to rest on his wrist.

"You've scored." He said softly, chuckling again at the spike in Greg's pulse beneath his fingers.

"Um..?"

"Your team has scored another goal."

"Oh. Good."

Marvelous! Apparently it was a choice between mute or monosyllabic, and all because this bloody man was sitting half holding his hand! Greg knew he was taking his pulse - he'd seen Sherlock use the trick once or twice - and he knew the rapid throb of it would be betraying him, but he couldn't bring himself to withdraw his hand. Didn't want to. What he really needed to do was take a drink because his mouth suddenly felt very dry. He risked a gentle lift of his glass and Sherlock's hand slipped away.

"Bloody faggots. Shouldn't be allowed in here."

The harsh male voice crashed through the moment breaking the spell. Greg looked up into the sneering face of a shaven-haired thug who was clearly of a mind to cause trouble. Not local though - North West accent and a footie shirt to match. A couple of similarly dressed mates leered behind him, egging him on.

"We don't want any trouble lads," Greg tried evenly, casting a glance at the bar where Davy had suddenly gone on high alert.

"Should fuck off back down South then eh? No fucking arse-bandits wanted up here."

"Oh we get all over the place sweetheart. Always looking for a bit of rough like you." Sherlock said sweetly.

Greg swore and threw himself in front of Sherlock at about the same time the thug launched himself at the detective. A tattooed fist connected with his cheekbone, swiftly followed by a punch to the gut. He got a few blows in of his own, trying to step around the upset table and broken glass on the floor. Sherlock had waded in and seemed surprisingly handy with his fists and feet, one of the man's friends already on the floor. There was a yell behind him and something very hard connected with his left buttock sending him sprawling in the broken glass. He was amazed to see Davy in the thick of it screaming at them all to 'pack it in' and brandishing what looked suspiciously like a baseball bat.

"You two, out!" He yelled to Greg. "Coppers are on their way!"

Hauling Sherlock by the arm he dragged him out the front door and halfway down the street just as the blue lights arrived. They leaned against the wall breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight and subsequent escape.

"Bloody hell Sherlock don't you ever do that to me again! Understood? I'm not John. Not built for rescuing you," gasped Greg. "I won't be able to sit comfortably for a week, because of you!"

"Hmm, didn't expect you to be saying that just yet. I'm flattered but not sure I can compete with a baseball bat." Smirked Sherlock.

"What? Did Sherlock Holmes just make a crude joke?"

"Only if it was funny."

"I'm shocked! But yeah, funny! Come on you idiot, let's go find ourselves a doctor to patch us up."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Short chapter but may be another chapter this evening. **

John was snoozing on his bed when the wounded pair arrived back at the hotel room. They entered with an almighty clatter that would have woken half the floor if it hadn't been just past seven in the evening. Greg was limping quite badly and his left eye was rapidly swelling, angry red skin already starting to darken with the bruising underneath. He would have a spectacular black eye by morning. Sherlock had come off rather better, having escaped the barman's enthusiastic attempt to restore order. He had a bloody nose and his jaw felt sore, but everything else was just minor bruising. John surveyed the sorry looking pair, failing to hide his exasperation.

"I left you in a perfectly respectable pub watching football! What happened?"

"I was trying to keep him out of trouble," moaned Greg. "I quit! You can have your job back John; I'm too old to be a bodyguard to this idiot. Oh my god, my butt is killing me!"

John sighed and went to his bag, rifling around and pulling out a first aid kit.

"This is all I've got to work with, because I thought this would be a relatively calm trip. Should've known better I suppose. Ok Greg, you strip to your pants and lie on the bed so I can check the damage. I'll check Sherlock over and clean him up a bit so he can go fetch some ice to bring the swelling down. We're going to need a bloody bucketful looking at you two. I suppose you have remembered that we have a meeting at police HQ tomorrow? Fine impression this is going to give."

The doctor worked efficiently, cleaning the blood from Sherlock's face and gently examining his nose to check it wasn't broken. When he'd done all he could he dropped a couple of paracetamol into the detective's palm and ordered him down to the restaurant to fetch ice. Greg lay face down on the bed, his head pillowed on his folded arms. He'd stripped off his jeans as instructed, struggling to bend enough to pull them off his feet. John examined the bruising with careful hands, mindful of the winces Greg was giving.

"You said it was a baseball bat? The impact looks like it was just about here, where your thigh meets your buttock – does that seem about right?"

"Yeah. Knocked my leg from under me and I fell down."

"The bruising is already coming out and it's pretty swollen, but the ice will help bring it down a bit. Clear impact mark – the bruising will spread out into the surrounding tissue from that point so you're going to feel pretty stiff and uncomfortable for a few days. No driving. I'll get you some paracetamol which will ease the discomfort, and we'll have to put a bit of ice on that eye too. So, want to tell me what happened?"

"Not really."

"But undoubtedly Sherlock's fault."

"Yes. No. Maybe? He didn't help a tricky situation, I guess."

"And the situation was-? Not football surely?"

"No. A few homophobic tossers who thought they'd have a go."

"Homopho-? Hang on, you mean you and Sherlock finally…?"

"No, not really. Can we drop it John? I'm not really in the mood to discuss it."

Sherlock returned with the ice which John wrapped in the hand towels from the bathroom and tenderly applied to Greg's bruises. The detective collected the police file from his room and sat on John's bed, back against the headboard, flicking through the copies of all the documents in the case. He plucked a photocopy of the confession letter from the pile of papers.

_Josie Long did not commit suicide, I killed her. If you can tell me how, I will turn myself in. You have until Friday 1__st__ – broadcast my method on the 6pm local news. If you are correct I will be in your cells by 8pm that evening._

"Arrogant. Thinks he's clever. I like him," he murmured shuffling the papers looking for the autopsy report.

"Who?"

"Our murderer."

"Don't think that's good form, liking him. Do you think its genuine then? She really was murdered?"

John had tidied away his kit and dropped onto his bed beside Sherlock, holding out his hand to receive the documents the detective had already perused. He looked closely at the photos of the body seeking any evidence that it could be anything other than suicide.

"Don't know yet. He has created a puzzle. Quite a good one now our main source of evidence - the body - has been destroyed. No reason to preserve the crime scene if you are sure no crime had been committed, so the SOCO photos aren't as thorough as they might otherwise have been. Yes, definitely an intriguing mystery."

"It gives the cause of death as 'accidental drowning' so why did they rule it suicide?"

"There were high levels of alcohol and sleeping pills in her system, and there was a note of sorts on her computer that suggested she intended to take her own life. Seemed fairly straightforward. No sign of a struggle so any investigation into foul play was cursory at best. It would appear she took enough pills and drink to lose consciousness and drown."

"Unusual suicide method though. You couldn't guarantee you'd slip low enough into the water, or that some sort of instinct for self-preservation would kick in. Maybe if it had been the sea or a river, but a bathtub?"

"Curious indeed."

Greg was already beginning to doze, the long day finally catching up with him. His head was also aching as he sobered up from his afternoon drinking.

"Not that I want to kick you out Sherlock but I need some sleep. Take the file if you like, but if you solve it before breakfast text John so I can have a lie in."


	5. Chapter 5

There was finally a break in the rain as they arrived at police HQ near the outskirts of the city. Getting Greg - whose upper leg and hip had stiffened up considerably overnight - out of the car proved to be even more of a challenge than getting him in, but was far funnier. Eventually John had to manoeuvre his legs from the foot-well while Greg shuffled on his bottom to the edge of the seat. Being the taller of the two, Sherlock bent down allowing Greg to link his arms behind his neck then Sherlock pulled him to standing while John wriggled himself behind the DI to prevent him falling back into the car. The end result was a sort of Lestrade sandwich.

"I really hope no one is watching out of those windows."

His chest was still pressed against Sherlock's who didn't seem to be in any hurry to let him go. The detective's arms were wrapped tightly around his middle which prevented him lowering his arms so all he could do was rest his hands on the other man's shoulders or leave them curled ridiculously around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock grinned, squeezing him in a peculiar hug.

"Um, don't mind me, will you? Feeling a bit left out here!" John muttered.

"Yeah, you can let me go now I'm on my feet."

"Just making sure you weren't going to keel over on me. Least I can do."

"Crikey, that was almost an apology. You feeling alright?"

Greg hobbled to the reception desk where they were directed to a meeting room on the first floor to wait for DI Waterstone. He was looking forward to seeing her again. They still talked on the phone regularly but it must be ten years since he'd been in her company – at some police training course or other, if he recalled correctly - and he couldn't help being curious to know how she'd changed. He was certainly impressed with the way her career was progressing and he was pretty sure she wouldn't remain a DI for any longer than was necessary. She possessed far more drive and ambition than he ever had, and worked hard to get the skills she needed to advance, but she never stepped on people. In his experience female officers moving up the ranks had to lose some of their softer edges to get on, but DI Waterstone – _Kate_ – remained a warm and genuine human being.

The door opened admitting a stunning red-head in her late thirties. She was around John's height, curvaceous, with long slightly curly hair which she wore pulled back into a clip and had piercing blue eyes set in delicate features. All three men stopped talking at once, her appearance commanding their attention, and it wasn't anything to do with the severe black trouser suit that gave her an air of authority. It took Greg a moment to recognize her.

"Kate! Bloody hell! A red-head now? Looks fantastic by the way."

She went to him immediately, a huge grin lighting up her face and pulled him into a tight hug that made him wince.

"Oops sorry," she laughed, "Don't know my own strength. Just had to give you a hug before the PA comes in and I have to behave like a proper grown-up professional. You haven't changed a bit, apart from the hair too. Sexy! What the hell happened to your face? Never mind, tell me later. You didn't call to say you'd arrived. We could have had dinner."

He laughed at her quick fire delivery. He'd almost forgotten the speed at which she could talk when she was excited and it was gratifying to have that eagerness directed at him.

"We drove up yesterday and needed some time to recover from the trek up north. Found a pub with footie and got into a fight – just like the good old days."

She laughed and turned to the other two men.

"Let me guess… Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. Sorry for being a bit over-affectionate with your DI here, we're old friends who haven't seen each other in forever! Greg is rubbish at keeping in touch – always leaves it to me to do all the running."

She shook hands with John, who smiled politely with a tilt of his head, and then turned to Sherlock who was clearly assessing her. She met his green-grey eyes confidently with her startling blue, a small smile playing about her lips. He took her proffered hand, holding it for a moment.

"Not just friends. Clearly lovers. But not a relationship – more friends with benefits. He doesn't need 'benefits' anymore."

"Sherlock!" exclaimed both men, but DI Waterstone just grinned at him.

"Oh Greg, either you're hopelessly indiscreet, or he's as brilliant as you said. I like you Sherlock Holmes, we'll work well together I think. And don't worry, his benefits are all yours."

It was a long time since he'd seen Sherlock so taken aback and he smirked at his shocked expression and pink cheeks. He'd talked to Kate about Sherlock earlier in the week, being quite open about his attraction to his friend. There were things he could tell her that he wouldn't discuss with John, like how often he found himself day-dreaming like a love-sick teenager when he should be working. Kate had been her usual blunt self and told him to stop messing about and get on with it. Perhaps he should have warned them about her direct way of speaking but he was rather glad he hadn't now. It was worth Sherlock's scowl when she winked at him.

They were joined by Kate's PA and an officer from her team introduced as DS Craig Patten who would be assisting them with their investigation. DS Patten was a sandy-haired man in his early forties clearly made for office work. Apparently his attention to detail was second to none - Kate's shorthand for 'pedantic, and suffers from OCD' - but she assured them all if there was some little detail to be discovered it wouldn't hide from Patten.

"We've set an office aside to use as a base for your investigation. Patten and I have access to whatever systems you need - if there's anything else, just ask. Coffee from the machine is dreadful, but it's better than the tea. I've got two other major operations underway at the minute so I might be a bit scarce but I'll try to set aside a couple of hours just for you each day. I want to know if this idiot is for real, or if he's taking the piss. If he did kill Josie then I want him to be walking in on Friday night as promised."

"Really? You'd trust him to do that?" John asked.

"Hell no! I'm hoping to drag the bastard through the door long before that! I probably won't be around for the rest of the day but how about dinner and a pint tonight?"

She looked at Greg who checked with the other two. John nodded readily and after a moment Sherlock acquiesced with an incline of his head.

"Great. See you later."

She left, DS Patten following once he'd given them directions to their new work base. Thankfully there was a lift as it was on the third floor and Greg really didn't think he could cope with all those stairs. Once the doors slid shut he was faced with two pairs of questioning eyes, one blue, the other jealously green! John grinned at him.

"So you and _DI Kate_ were dating?"

"Not dating, no. We rented rooms in the same digs when I worked up here for a while. We spent a lot of time in the pub."

"And bed" said Sherlock sourly.

"Yeah we shagged a bit but it wasn't serious. She wanted a career and I was sort of committed elsewhere."

"He means married."

John's eyebrows shot up at that but he didn't comment knowing Greg's soon to be ex-wife was a serial adulterer. Not every marriage was a match made in heaven and his didn't seem to have been happy for a long time.

"So she drinks pints and has no-strings sex with you? If she cooks then she's probably your perfect woman. What are you waiting for?"

Greg laughed out loud at that. Some of his best memories of Kate involved disasters in the kitchen - cooking really wasn't her forte. In fact the only person who could ever rival her for culinary destruction was the man currently slumped resentfully against the wall of the lift. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at Sherlock's sulk.

The office was basic and small, but adequate. They expected to be out most of the time and only needed it as a base to bring all of their data together. John insisted the hotel wouldn't be pleased if Sherlock stuck distressing crime scene photos all over the walls of his room for the chambermaids to find so he reluctantly began tacking them up on the noticeboard, rearranging them into an order only he understood. John had gone off to source a decent mug of tea and a power cable for his laptop, leaving Greg to start putting together a plan of action based on the file. He'd been busily making notes – people to talk to, questions to ask – when he became aware that Sherlock had stopped pacing and was seated at the other side of the desk watching him intently, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"Something wrong?"

"Nope."

"Want to tell me why I'm so fascinating then?"

"I don't know, and it's extremely frustrating. But that's not why I'm staring at you."

That wasn't quite the answer he expected but it gave him a thrill to have Sherlock intrigued by him. He didn't honestly believe he had enough depth to be fascinating to anyone, much less the great detective. If he wasn't working, he was sleeping and hobbies were non-existent. He forced himself to go to the gym but it was deadly dull. Next to the dynamic man in front of him he often felt old and boring, but Sherlock was still gazing at him like he was something special.

"Why are you staring? Not that I object."

He leaned his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his hand holding Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm trying to see you the way normal people see you. I want to understand why people can't help wanting to be around you."

"Is that a compliment? You make it sound like I'm beating them off with sticks. Who are these people and where are they, because I seem to spend an awful lot of time being lonely for someone you think is so popular!"

"John likes you."

"John likes everyone, even you!"

"The couple at the club..."

Ah, he still hadn't come clean with Sherlock about knowing Joe and Beth even though the detective had guessed it was a set up. They did all get on well but he didn't socialize with them often.

"Beth liked you! She wanted to take you home but I wouldn't allow it."

"Why?"

"You were supposed to be with me."

Sherlock's eyes widened a tiny twitch of his eyelids that Greg would have missed had he been able to look away from those beautiful eyes. Captivated. That's how it felt to lose yourself in those pools the colour of a stormy ocean... _Oh great, now I'm slipping into awful rom-com mode. Seriously Greg?_ The mood needed to be broken and Sherlock did so with aplomb.

"Why did you not honour your marriage vows?"

"Bloody hell, that's quite a question. Are you surprised, given what you know about the state of my marriage?"

"I was shocked and disappointed when I deduced your relationship with DI Waterstone. It made me question your honesty and integrity."

"Really? That's a bit black and white isn't it? Most people's lives aren't that straightforward and emotions _never_ are."

He was irritated at Sherlock's judgmental attitude but it was typical of the detective to have strong feelings about the oddest of mainstream things like fidelity while being completely amoral about stuff like experimenting with chemicals on his close friends. He tried to recall what John had told him... Something about Sherlock seeing the world differently?

"Look Sherlock, I know you like facts so I'll give you it in those terms and you can judge them as you wish. My wife was having an affair, I was working away from home and was lonely, and I met a girl who was a lot of fun who made me feel good and rebuilt my self-esteem. We had sex - a lot of bloody good sex actually - and she persuaded me to give my marriage a chance. I did. My wife didn't. She's had at least four affairs and they are the ones I know about. I think the only mistake I made was not leaving after the first so I don't feel very guilty about the one fling I had. I got a good friend out of it. I'm sorry if that upsets some kind of perfect vision you have of me, but I'm just a man."

"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to make you angry. I just needed to know I could trust you with the Work and - things."

Greg sighed.

"You can trust me with anything Sherlock, and I'll try to never let you down, but I won't get it right every time. No-one does."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Another shortish chapter which means there'll probably be another later today particularly if it keeps raining - enjoy! **

When John and Patten returned with two boxes Greg and Sherlock were discussing the case, an altogether more comfortable subject for them both, although the DI was limping restlessly around the office. John set his box down and pulled out a bottle of pills from his pocket, tossing it across the room to Sherlock who snatched it from mid-air.

"Good reflexes. Give him two, please, and then take him for a walk. He needs to keep that leg mobile to promote healing."

"Ok, we were going to check out the girl's room. It's been cleared but I want to see how it's laid out."

"There's a portable hard disk in one of these boxes containing a backup of Josie's laptop. I thought I'd start with that. Check through her emails, calendar, photos."

"See if you can find the document that was presumed to be a suicide note. You can see in on screen in the photo of her laptop."

Half an hour later Sherlock pulled up outside the student accommodation. Greg struggled to extract himself from the passenger seat while Sherlock hurried around the car. He waved the detective away, cursing under his breath at the throbbing pain that seemed to reach from buttock to the back of his knee, eventually heaving himself upright.

"You should let me help," Sherlock said quietly touching his shoulder.

"I'm fine; just need a soak or a massage or something."

There was no lift here, just stairs to the first floor which had Greg swearing and sweating by the time they reached the top. Sherlock waited impatiently for him to catch his breath, desperate to enter Josie's accommodation but Greg had the key. Finally he delved into his friends pocket to retrieve it for himself earning an indignant "Oi!"

The 'flat' was little more than a bedroom with en-suite bathroom, though 'en-suite' implied grandeur it could never hope to achieve. It had been cleared of everything but the basic furniture - a single bed, wardrobe, desk, armchair. The bathroom contained a lavatory, tiny wash basin and the bathtub. Sherlock paced around, measuring steps and peering at details through his pocket magnifying glass.

"Look at the lock on the bathroom door," he commanded. "What do you observe?"

"Modern, not in keeping with the age of the door. Looks to be in working order but too flimsy to withstand a determined intruder. Was the door locked when they found her?"

"Yes, though not necessarily by Josie. See this? It's one of those locks you can twist with a coin from the outside to open in case of emergency. Health and safety rules for a place like this I expect."

"So someone else could have locked her in?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock stopped in front of the pin board staring intently at something that was no longer there. He tapped the bottom right hand corner with a slim finger.

"Just here. There was something... argh! Can't recall. The pills were prescription, yes?"

"Yeah, filled three days before she died. There was enough in her system to render her unconscious definitely. Very high level of alcohol too. Stomach contents stated red wine and probably vodka."

"It's the bath oil that's out of place here. And something else is missing. What is it?"

Greg looked around the stark room puzzled by the question. He was familiar with the way Sherlock worked by now but occasionally the detective actually expected an answer to one of his random questions and this was apparently one of those times because he was standing a foot away with his eyes fixed on Greg's mouth waiting. He tried to recall details from the case file, specifically the photos but eventually shrugged. Sherlock scowled, disappointed with him.

"Why can't you _see_?"

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, stupid, that's why I asked."

Greg bit his tongue. Hard! He really could be an insufferable git at times. Sherlock was pacing again, tugging at his hair clearly frustrated at their shared blindness, and then with a gleeful cry he walked out of the room. A moment later he reappeared in the door.

"Well are you coming or not?"

It was almost four when they rejoined John at the office and gathered in front of the photo wall. Greg was weary and wanted nothing more than a hot bath, decent meal and a nap, and he wondered precisely when he'd started to feel so ancient. _Probably about three weeks ago, around one in the morning, when I decided I was still young enough to keep up with this mad man!_ _Not just about keeping up though is it Greg? You want to impress, but you're just not sure you still have the edge._

Sherlock was muttering, touching a photo here, moving a photo there. John watched him with an admiring expression, interjecting with things he'd noted from the disk files, which really got Greg's goat. In the last few weeks he'd come to resent the easy fluidity of John's relationship with Sherlock, and there was a part of him that still believed they would be a couple if it wasn't for Mary.

When Sherlock uttered an enthusiastic 'yes!' for the third time in response to one of John's observations he slouched off to sit on the desk in the corner and sullenly scanned the crime scene report once more, looking at an inventory list that had been compiled for the flat. The bottle of prescription sleeping pills was listed along with the bottle of red wine and a single glass, which implied she'd been alone but a wine glass was simple to tidy away or take with you on leaving a crime scene. It would be long gone now, if it had ever been used.

"Sherlock, I know what's missing!"

The detective whirled crossing the tiny office in two strides.

"Vodka! The vodka bottle is missing! Alcohol in her system was too high for one bottle of wine and the PM mentioned vodka, but there's no bottle listed."

"You brilliant man!"

The detective seized the lapels of Greg's jacket catching him off guard, pulling him towards him and smacking his lips against Greg's in a clumsy, excited kiss. It was over in a second and the detective was gone, striding from the room like a man on a mission.

"See you back at the hotel," he called over his shoulder.

Greg was stunned. He concentrated in straightening his jacket to give himself a moment to breathe. Sherlock had kissed him! Granted it wasn't the type of kiss he'd been fantasizing about for the last few weeks, but lips met lips and that was what counted. He heard a chuckle and realized John was laughing at him.

"Oh god, the look on your face is priceless! So was that everything you dreamed of lover-boy?"

"Get lost!" He snapped, but he couldn't help his huge toothy grin.


	7. Chapter 7

**A\N: There may even be another installment today after this one, just because I think some followers may kick me for leaving it where I do :-D**

Greg rolled to his knees in the water and got his feet under him. He managed to haul himself to standing and gave a silent prayer of thanks for the grab rail that hotels installed for less mobile residents. He eased out of the bathtub and toweled off as best he could, wrapping the damp bath sheet around his hips.

"Need help getting out?" John called from the bedroom.

"No, I'm good - well, I managed it at least. The bruising looks horrific."

He heard John's ringtone and then his greeting - clearly Mary by the fondness in his voice - so he pushed the door fully closed to give the other man some privacy for his chat. He shaved, knowing that Kate preferred him clean-shaven and suppressing the little voice in his head that asked why it should matter, dressed quickly and then headed out into the bedroom.

"Mary wants to know if Sherlock's behaving himself."

"My arse says no!"

There was an audible shriek from the other end of the line and John collapsed in a fit of giggles.

"She heard that and completely misinterpreted. Here, she wants to talk to you."

John handed over his mobile smirking at Greg's mouthed insult.

"Hey Mary, how are my beautiful girls?" He skipped out of reach of the doctor's thrown shoe laughing at John's mock outrage.

"Stop flirting with my wife you git!"

"I'm just staking my claim with your daughter. When she's twenty I'll be her spry seventy-year-old sugar-daddy."

Mary gave a particularly rude curse that made him laugh again.

"Keep your hands off my daughter Lestrade or I'll make John find a use for his gun. He'll be over-the-hill by then so he won't mind spending his last few years in prison to protect his daughter's virtue. Anyway, I hear you've been keeping a hot little redhead secret all this time and the three of you have a date with her tonight."

"Kate's just a friend these days. And to answer your question about Sherlock, he got us into a fight, so behaving as his usual _insane_ self, rather than behaving himself."

"You sound regretful about Kate. Don't rule anything out Greg; you're still a free agent."

"I know. It's just Sherlock-"

"Sherlock nothing. If he wants you he has to earn you. In the meantime have fun. Promise me?"

"Yes Mrs. Watson!" he laughed.

"Tell her I love her and I'll call her later." John called, heading for the shower.

"I heard, tell him the same."

"She says she's leaving you for Brad Pitt and you can collect your stuff on Tuesday."

"Again? It'll never last, no bloody stamina that bloke."

There was still no sign of Sherlock by the time they were ready to leave for the restaurant so John sent him a quick text to let him know where they would be and the pair headed off into town. They opted for an Italian chain where the food would be good but cheap and the booths and lighting were conducive to conversation. Kate arrived a few minutes after the men sliding onto the bench seat opposite Greg before he could stand to greet her. She'd changed into slim jeans and a close fitting black t-shirt and pinned her hair up - simple attire but it looked sensational on her.

"Put your tongue away Lestrade, you're drooling on the table," she teased.

Damn, she was always so good at reading him, but it was one of the reasons they were so compatible. There had never been any pretense at a relationship or declarations of feelings - they just formed a solid friendship that happened to fall into bed when the fancy took. It helped that Kate was so direct about sex and so definite that there was no place in her life for commitment. She was probably every man's dream if he thought about it. He beamed at her, pleased to see her again after such a long time apart. They ordered, deciding Sherlock probably wouldn't eat even if he turned up, and then settled back to chat.

"So how did you two meet? Greg didn't say he'd spent time up here."

"I was seconded up here for six months on a drugs case. One of our bigger villains in London was supplying huge quantities of cocaine to the north east. I had intelligence they thought would help shut him down. Kate was on my team."

"Yeah and he totally took advantage."

"Liar! She was brunette back then and totally out to prove that blondes _don't_ have more fun. I didn't stand a chance, particularly when I found out we were living in the same house."

"We share a sense of humour and we actually work brilliantly together so it was no hardship to be in each other's company almost constantly. Did he tell you I could drink him under the table back then?"

Greg laughed at John's surprised look. They were regular pub companions so John had a good idea of the volume Greg could drink before feeling the effects. To think this woman could handle more than that was impressive and slightly shocking.

"To be fair I didn't drink as much back then. I hadn't met Sherlock so no reason to hit the bottle quite so often. Do you remember that drunken Glaswegian in the Alice in Wonderland costume that tried to attack us with a homemade cardboard machete? God we had some weird nights in that pub!"

Dinner was good and the conversation flowed as Kate entertained them with reminiscences of Greg's time in Durham. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and neither Greg nor John received a text which was worrying, so when Kate suggested heading to the pub for last orders John excused himself to go back to the hotel so he could call Mary and hopefully locate their friend. In the last hour the two DIs' chatter had become more flirtatious and it was clear that John was feeling like a spare part. Greg didn't like to make his friend uncomfortable but he was glad to see him go so he could have Kate to himself at last. He supposed they had been heading comfortably towards the inevitable conclusion of their re-acquaintance so he wasn't surprised when Kate linked his arm and grinned mischievously at him.

"Your place or mine?"

"Well my room is currently occupied. Not sure I'm going to live up to your memories though Kate. I'm ten years older and can barely stand upright thanks to Sherlock."

"That sounds rude," she giggled, squeezing his bum. "Come on old man. As long as one part can still make it upright we'll be fine."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter is specially for my reviewer JustBTrue2WhoUR who begged for more to avoid revision - no children were starved in the writing of this chapter ;-) Not sure you're going to like it, but this is how Greg told me it went down lol**

Greg groaned and felt around blindly on the bedside table seeking his ringing mobile. It was pitch black in Kate's bedroom apart from the glowing beacon of the smartphone screen which he finally used to locate it. He groaned when he saw it was Sherlock calling and it was only just past four in the morning.

"Yeah?" He answered curtly. Kate raised her head at the sound of his voice, sleepily curling her naked body against him. He wriggled under the covers and she gave a soft sigh of appreciation when his free hand stroked lazily over her hip.

"Where are you?" The detective asked in a small voice.

"In bed. I was asleep."

"Not in _your_ bed."

Greg thought about lying, remembering his plan to be back at the hotel by six before Sherlock realized he'd stayed out all night, but the voice continued. "_I'm_ in your bed. I couldn't sleep."

"Oh. Right."

His brain flip-flopped between 'why didn't you tell me sooner?' and 'why am I not there with you?' but he settled on a plain "Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

Kate's sleepy fingers were caressing his inner thigh but it was the thought of another's warm hand that had his traitorous body responding. She laid a kiss on his chest, then his stomach and another lower still, moving down his body. _Christ!_ He couldn't talk to Sherlock like this. He just about contained a moan as Kate did something sinful beneath the covers.

"Look I'll be back in an hour. Talk then."

He terminated the call, tossing the phone onto the bed and giving in to Kate's ministrations but his imagination was in a hotel room across town.

* * *

Sherlock was waiting for him in the dark car park, his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, scuffing the polished toe of one shoe through the gravel like a moody teenager. Greg searched for a way to evade him, desperate to avoid confrontation at least until he'd showered and changed, but the eyes that met his looked lost. The DI felt a pang of regret that he could be the cause of that.

"I came to your room to tell you that you were right about the vodka bottle. It was missing; or rather it was never there in the flat. Josie was with another student earlier in the evening - the boyfriend of a friend, who didn't think it worth mentioning in case his girlfriend found out. He rented the room opposite and they were sleeping together."

"Ok, thanks for keeping me updated, but couldn't it have waited till - I dunno, nine-ish?"

"I thought you'd be interested" he replied softly, turning away.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I worried about you when you disappeared last night."

"Did you? I didn't notice. Was that before or after the orgasm?"

Greg tried valiantly to ignore the barb, something unpleasantly like guilt gnawing at his insides. Why the hell should he feel guilty? It wasn't like they were _together_ or anything, and the bloody great idiot hadn't even given him a clue that he wanted that. Well perhaps a clumsy kiss yesterday and an almost-kiss a few weeks ago, but that wasn't bloody _evidence_! Nowhere near clear enough for Greg to risk making a fool of himself anyway.

"I- I wanted you to spend some time with us. To get to know Kate."

Sherlock glared at him from beneath the street lamp.

"And why the _hell_ do you think I would want to do _that_?"

"Because she's my friend, and I wanted you to like her. I thought you'd get along, and-"

"And we'd all have a jolly time together, fighting crime? How lovely! Not really working out like that though is it? _Sorry_, bit busy actually doing some detection. Somebody has to, when half the team is too busy engaging in sex to focus on solving a potential murder."

"That's unfair, we're not on the clock all the time. Why are you being like this?"

_Perhaps not the argument to go with Greg, if you're hoping to avoid confrontation._ Sherlock took a step towards him, towering menacingly above him, his face contorted with fury.

"I'm not being like anything," he ground out. "I'm doing the job I was asked to do. Had I realised it was a means for you to- Oh just forget it!"

He wheeled away into the darkness leaving Greg to wonder just what getting his leg over might have cost him.

* * *

The bathroom door was closed and the shower was running when Greg let himself into his room. He was thankful for a bit of breathing space before he had to face John's questions about where he'd spent the night. Not that there was any doubt about where he'd been and what he'd been doing, of course, but John would want to ask, to make sure he understood all the facts of the situation before he formed an opinion. That opinion may be coloured by having spent at least a few hours in Sherlock's company already. If Sherlock rang him just after four then he must have woken John up at stupid o'clock to gain access to Greg's bed, and he couldn't imagine John being pleased about it.

He rubbed a hand roughly over his eyes, feeling the scratchy tiredness that still lingered. Late nights and early mornings were taking their toll. Definitely not as sprightly as he used to be. He unbuttoned his shirt in front of the mirror, assessing his body critically as it was revealed - reasonably toned with a bit of extra padding that refused to budge, and tanned, thanks to the sunbed he still hadn't got around to sending back, and didn't Kate find _that_ hilarious? She'd still been hot for him though, so he can't have let himself go that much. He grinned at his reflection. Yes, renewing their acquaintance had definitely given him a boost, just like it had all those years ago. He pulled out fresh clothes from his bag and rapped on the bathroom door.

"You about done?"

"Oh, you're back? Two minutes while I finish shaving."

The door opened and John stuck his head out, left half of his face still covered in foam. He frowned when he saw Greg, pointing at his neck.

"You might want to wear a tie today. Not sure Sherlock will be able to resist commenting on that."

Greg pushed past the doctor into the bathroom, leaning over him into the brighter light above the mirror. _Crap!_ Kate always knew exactly where on his neck to bite to get him going. Normally he could trust her not to mark him though. The car park had been dark so it was unlikely the detective would have noticed it, but John was right - he would get all kinds of shit from Sherlock once he did. He moved over so John could finish his shave, flicking on the shower and undressing in spite of John's grunt of protest. He suddenly felt the need to wash away the smell of Kate's perfume from his skin.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

The atmosphere in the office was tense but it appeared DS Patten was completely oblivious as he updated them on the progress they'd all made individually on the list of things to check. During his absence Sherlock had tracked down the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem and double checked all the findings with him. He confirmed there was nothing to suggest force anywhere on the body and that the drink and drugs were self-administered. The water in the lungs came from the bathtub, and cause of death was definitely from suffocation by water.

The boy Josie had been sleeping with confirmed they had consumed most of a bottle of vodka on the evening she died and that he hadn't been aware of her leaving, claiming he had passed out. He didn't recall any other visitors to Josie's room.

John passed around a print out of the document thought to be Josie's suicide note. It was long and detailed, exploring her despair with life and made difficult reading. John waited until the others had scanned it and asked "Thoughts?"

"Sad. Poor girl, how could she have so little hope in her life and no one noticed? She had friends, tutors, family, and no one picked up on this?" said Greg.

"You're thinking something John, but not saying it."

John looked pleased to be asked. He held it up dramatically, ignoring Sherlock's eye-roll. Greg caught Sherlock's eye and twitched a smile which wasn't returned. Clearly he wasn't going to be easily forgiven for spending the night with Kate. _Maybe if he didn't have me permanently horny I wouldn't have been so tempted!_

"Well doesn't it seem a little too detailed and correct? There isn't a single spelling error and the grammar is excellent. No muddling of words, no sense of haste. It's also very logically constructed, suggesting a lot of thought went into it - maybe it was edited until it was perfect. If you were going to take your own life would you really type up your note in perfect paragraphs and take time to spell check it?"

Sherlock snatched it out of his hand, pacing as he read the document once more noting every one of John's points was correct.

"What was Josie studying?"

"English Literature."

"So she would know how to deconstruct a piece of writing to understand the author's intent. It would be safe to assume she could then create a document of her own using those principles to falsely lead a reader to believe what she wanted them to believe."

Greg looked confused. "So it's a fake note?"

"No, the document and its message are real enough but I don't think this was intended to be a suicide note. It's got far too much theatrical flair. John, did you find anything else?"

"Yes, she seemed to be involved in some kind of creative writing group and corresponded by email with three people regularly. They swapped stories, ideas, general chat. One of the girls was spoken to during the case but the other two - Lacey and someone called Dante - don't appear in the files as far as I can see. I tracked down Lacey - she's the administrator of the writing group and I have an address for her - but I can't tell you much about Dante other than he appears to be male, writes dark angst-ridden fiction and seems to have a fascination with death and dying. Pretty grim most of it."

"Medical student?"

"I certainly hope not. Could be another literature student? Dante was a poet wasn't he?"

"Nothing to suggest he was a student at all so let's keep an open mind. John, could you and DS Patten talk to Lacey? I'm going to talk to her fellow students."

It was clear to Greg that Sherlock thought he was running the team now, and while the detective was upset with him Greg would let him get away with it ,as he often did. He hated having Sherlock's negative emotions directed at him. The man had a knack for turning that negativity back on you so you felt that you were the failure or the aggressor or the unreliable one. On the other hand, it always gave him a buzz to see Sherlock fired with enthusiasm about a case. His lanky frame positively vibrated with energy and he never stood still for a moment, sweeping in and out of Greg's life like a cartoon Tasmanian devil. It was infinitely better than the alternative - boredom and Sherlock were a bad mix.

"What about me?" He hoped Sherlock would ask him to go with him, and he seemed on the verge of doing just that, when Kate entered the room.

"I'm sure you can find something useful to do," he said coldly as he left.

Kate raised a questioning eyebrow at Greg in response to the curly-haired man's departure. He set his elbows on the desk and rubbed his hands over his face trying to force the weariness from his body; he needed more sleep at his age. His leg still ached and his head wasn't much better, and he really couldn't face dealing with Sherlock in one of his moods. Probably for the best, the detective leaving when he did. John set a packet of painkillers and a bottle of water by his elbow and squeezed his shoulder as he left with Patten.

"Oh dear, are we in trouble for last night?"

"I guess so. He doesn't really get it. Get _us_, I mean."

"Not many people do. Want me to try to explain it to him? If I can actually get him to stay in the same room for longer than two minutes."

"No it's fine. I'm used to his tantrums, but I wish he'd be clear on what he wants because he's driving me crazy. I'm going to grab a coffee from the machine – want one?"

She nodded her head to the drink, waving away the offer of a chocolate bar too. The vending machines were located at the end of the corridor just past the fire doors which was a pain when trying to carry more than one of the flimsy plastic cups of scorching dishwater that passed for coffee. Digging in his pockets for coins, he was only vaguely aware of the door swinging shut ahead of him and a dark silhouette looming on the other side. He was barely through the door when he was seized by the shoulders and pushed roughly against the wall, loose change pattering onto the floor like rain. His startled yelp was swiftly cut off by a firm pair of lips crashing against his mouth and a tall lean body crowding against him.

"Sh-Sherlock-?" he managed to gasp through the ferocious assault of the detective's lips and tongue, shoving a hand against his chest. "Fucking hell, steady!"

Sherlock put some small distance between their bodies, so he was no longer pinning Greg to the wall, but his lips remained insistently on the DI's, demanding some response. Greg's head was spinning as he tried once more to push Sherlock away. It took several moments before Sherlock took note and halted the kiss, but he only withdrew a miniscule distance, his lips still hanging tantalizingly close to Greg's.

"Is that clear enough for you _Lestrade_?" Sherlock growled his breath hot on Greg's face.

Greg closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing and trying to slow his racing heartbeat. He didn't think Sherlock would need to take his pulse this time; he must surely be able to hear it hammering in his chest, much like Sherlock's own heartbeat pounded under his palm. Sherlock had been using his forename for the last few weeks, even getting it correct about eighty percent of the time, but the way he growled out his surname, stretching it out into a feral sound, did glorious things to his groin region.

His brain didn't seem able to make the connections necessary for speech, but instinct screamed 'kiss him you idiot!' Before he could overthink it, he closed the gap between their mouths pressing his lips gently against the other man's. Sherlock froze, and Greg had a second of panic that he'd done the wrong thing, but then Sherlock's hands were cradling his head and his lips were returning the pressure. It had none of the ferocity of the previous kiss, just a brief press of skin to skin, but it was equal and deliberate, and was most definitely making things a bit clearer for Greg.

Right up to the point Sherlock walked away.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Ok, so I'm actually nervous of posting this chapter! It's a long one, and it's been revised so many times that I could probably quote it word for word. It finally feels right to me, so I'm leaving it alone and putting it out there - my lovely reviewers will tell me if I got it right (hopefully yes - eek!). Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story - the response has been amazing. There will be one final chapter after this to tie it all up, to be posted this evening. At the start I was pretty sure this would be the last story in this series, but I'm not quite sure they're finished with me yet. Not making any promises, but if the muse allows, there may be another story in the future.**

Sherlock Holmes was a bastard of the highest order and a tease to boot, Greg decided. He was getting sick of these ambush tactics even if every encounter left him with something else to fantasize about. His biggest fear was that the manipulative git was toying with him from some warped sense of amusement or worse, some kind of crazy experiment in retaliation for sleeping with Kate.

Once he could breathe normally he set about picking up his scattered coins and cursing Sherlock for leaving yet again without giving him a clue as to what he actually felt. Sherlock had told him he wasn't gay, and he was as certain as he could be - fantasies about shagging Sherlock aside - that he wasn't either, but every one of these moments left him wanting something that both scared and excited him. He'd seen Sherlock flirt shamelessly with both sexes but as far as he could recall the only relationship he'd had was with Janine, and John had told him that wasn't all it seemed though he hadn't gone into detail. Maybe they were just as clueless as each other.

Back in the office sipping his disgusting coffee he lost himself in work for a while reviewing what they knew. Tuesday was coming to a close and they hadn't had much of a breakthrough. He started reading through the string of emails from the mysterious Dante searching for anything that would help determine his identity. He came across one with a subject of 'collaboration' that kept referencing a document that didn't seem to be attached to any of the emails. He quickly carried out a file search of the hard drive but had no luck. He tried 'Dante' - nothing. He even tried words like 'hell', 'purgatory', 'inferno' - in fact anything his vague memory could link with the name Dante, but to no avail. Eventually he typed in an author search for 'Dan' and one file was returned, simply called 'credentials' created by a Daniel Taylor.

"Well, well. I may be wrong Mr. Taylor but I think you may be a person of interest," he murmured. "Kate, did the name Daniel Taylor come up at all? Friend, boyfriend?"

"Not that I recall. We didn't do much in the way of interviews, to be honest, it seemed so certain it was suicide."

He typed a quick text to John, and another to Sherlock.

_Ask Lacey about Daniel Taylor. I think he's Dante. G_

_I think Dante is Daniel Taylor. May be a friend or course mate? G_

The text document contained login credentials and a URL for a website. When it loaded the screen was completely black with a white rose lying in a pool of what he supposed was blood. _Cheery_, he thought. There was no information on the landing page at all and it took almost five minutes of exasperating mouse scanning across the screen to finally uncover the hidden button to reveal the login. Kate read out the login id and password which he typed in carefully, only to be presented with a message telling him his account had been suspended.

"I can submit the necessary paperwork to get access from the hosting company, but it'll take twenty-four hours."

He nodded, reaching into his pocket for his vibrating phone.

"John?" he greeted.

"Greg, Daniel Taylor is a Pharmacy student at the university. He used to be a regular member of the writing group but Lacey asked him to leave because some of his stuff was getting a bit too dark – violence, drug use, death, rape – that sort of thing. He set up a rival website for like-minded writers and Lacey thinks that Josie may have signed up."

"I think I found it, along with some log in details, but the account is locked out. Kate is going to see if she can get access somehow, but it'll be tomorrow at the earliest we think. Have you heard from Sherlock? I was going to head back to the hotel but he's not back yet."

"No, not a thing, but just text him if you want to go. He's a big boy and can get a taxi if he needs to. Craig has invited me to join him and his wife for dinner, so I thought I'd go if you don't mind?"

"No, go ahead. I'll happily have a night in with the files. Enjoy."

Greg stretched out on his bed, one arm behind his head, the other hand curled around a can of beer that he'd picked up from a supermarket on the way back to the hotel. He didn't care for drinking from the can normally; not enjoying the metallic taste against his tongue, but the only glass in the bathroom was tiny. He'd eaten half of his Chinese takeaway, taken a bath, and was now watching a film he'd purchased on impulse from the hotels on-demand service. It was awful, but having parted with money for it, he felt obliged to watch it. The lock clicked and the door opened admitting Sherlock.

"Lifted John's key card, I assume," Greg said by way of greeting. The detective hummed, staring at the screen.

"What are you watching? It's a bit-?"

"Vampire porn apparently. Description used the word 'racy' but I think we passed that within ten minutes. It sucks, no pun intended."

"Mind if I join you?"

Greg gestured at John's bed inviting him to sit and handed him a can, not really expecting Sherlock to accept it, but the detective snapped it open and took a long drink. He shrugged off his coat laying it carefully over the chair, and toed off his shoes and socks. Greg was staring fixedly at the screen trying not to look like he was acutely aware of every movement in the room. Even so he was startled when his mattress dipped and Sherlock eased down beside him. The single bed wasn't really wide enough for two grown men and he had to shuffle further up to allow the other man to stretch out. Sherlock's dark curls thumped down onto the pillow next to his hip where he had moved to sit against the headboard. The detective's eyes were shut, the can held loosely in his fingers, balanced on his abdomen. Greg watched the shallow rise and fall of it with every breath Sherlock took.

"Relax will you?" Sherlock's voice rumbled unexpectedly into the room. "You weren't this tense last time we ended up in bed together. Watch your film."

Greg choked, pulling his bare knees up to his chest protectively and regretting he hadn't chosen to put on jeans following his bath. His right foot accidentally brushed against Sherlock's left hand and he flinched away as though he'd been burnt. Sherlock chuckled and opened one green eye to regard the DI's apprehensive posture.

"Oh for goodness sake!" Sherlock rolled away from Greg to place his can on the bedside table, and then he plucked Greg's from his limp fingers and set it beside his. "Shall we just get this over with? I mean it's probably not going to be good, so best just to get it out of the way. It's not like we haven't done it before, we just need to practice and figure out what we like."

"P-Practice-?" Greg said faintly, eyes wide.

Sherlock shifted so he knelt next to Greg's bent legs, resting one pale hand on the peak of his friend's right knee to steady himself. His other hand curled around Greg's face, soothing the pad of his thumb gently over the bruising around his eye.

"I'm sorry for this," he whispered, letting his thumb glide down over his cheekbone and under his eye until it rested lightly against his nose. "I didn't intend for you to get hurt for me. And I'm sorry for being so stupid about-"

"About-?"

"DI Waterstone. And sorry for implying you put sex before your work."

Greg's eyebrows climbed higher with each apology, but before he could speak Sherlock's thumb was stroking across his lips in a caress just the bearable side of ticklish. He licked his lips reflexively, the tip of his tongue making the briefest contact with his thumb as it passed. Sherlock grinned, leaving it resting on the centre of Greg's lower lip. Christ, that felt good! Greg closed his eyes, setting his teeth gently against it and sliding his tongue over the pad, sucking lightly.

"Interesting. Feels completely different when someone else does it. Definitely one to repeat."

Greg released it with a final sweep of his tongue and said "if you're going to deduce, or analyze or whatever, do it in your head. A running commentary probably isn't going to help."

"I thought being vocal meant your partner understood what you liked so they were more likely to repeat it?"

"Some well-placed 'oohs' and 'aahs', and one or two 'Greg you're magnificents' ought to do it."

"Idiot," he said softly, leaning in to nuzzle at his neck. "I recall when we were in the club, you enjoyed this. You shivered - yeah, just like that - when I got near this spot here... Seems to be your 'on' switch."

Sherlock's teeth grazed over the bruise on his neck that had been Kate's doing the previous evening. He tensed expecting Sherlock to get angry again and leave, but instead he soothed the sensitive spot with the flat of his tongue, and sucked tenderly.

"This one definitely didn't come from the fight. Do you think," he whispered between feather light kisses up the side of his neck, "that if I follow the trail of these marks, they'll show me the path I need to take to satisfy you?"

"I think I would very much prefer it if you found your own way to please me," Greg said a little breathlessly.

Sherlock hummed against his neck, his dark curls tickling deliciously against Greg's jawline. Fantastic as it felt, doubt lingered in the DIs mind that this was real and not just cruel teasing.

"Sherlock, I need to take this really slow, do you understand me? And I'm not talking about the sex. Well I am, but I mean... _Christ_! This is embarrassing. I'm trying to tell you that I don't really know what I'm doing."

"Me either, but we'll figure it out. How hard can it be?"

"Rock hard, hopefully. Isn't that the point?" He giggled, Sherlock joining in.

"That was appalling!"

"Lightened the mood though."

He shimmied down the bed until he was lying facing the detective, their heads close together on the pillow. Sherlock's eyes were emerald in the dim light, his hair inky black.

"Are we doing this then? You're not going to snog me then walk away calmly like it never happened are you?"

"Not unless I'm so bad you kick me out."

Previous experience said Sherlock definitely wasn't a bad kisser, though he seemed to like being the one in charge. Greg thought back to their first kiss - the fake one in Sherlock's bed, with both men hung over, feeling like shit - which was the only time Greg felt he'd had taken any kind of control. That kiss was incredible even with morning breath and a pounding head and Sherlock puking in the waste bin the minute it ended. _Just do it Greg. You've kissed a dozen women in your lifetime and no one has complained about your technique yet. Kate wouldn't let you get away with anything less than perfect and it's not like you to be shy._

"You're gorgeous" he said, working himself up to it.

"Thank you."

"What? No return compliment? Such a romantic."

"You're not a vain man, and neither are you seeking validation. You already know I find you attractive. If you want romance, John's your man."

"John's married," huffed Greg.

"And not gay." They said in unison, sniggering.

"If you still want a compliment, you have a beautifully firm arse."

"Charming. Maybe there are better uses for that luscious mouth than romance after all."

Greg pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, the tip of his tongue tracing along the detective's lower lip in a teasing caress, but the angle was all wrong. He leaned up on his elbow tugging the other man until he was lying flat on his back gazing up at him, then closed again, throwing one bare muscular leg over Sherlock's. The detective startled.

"Too pushy?" Asked Greg smiling down at him, their lips only a fraction apart.

"No, it's good. I just wasn't expecting _that_."

Greg nudged his hips against the other man's thigh.

"You mean _that_?"

Sherlock nodded eyes wide. Greg chuckled and glanced at Sherlock's crotch relieved to see his trousers were looking a little tight too.

"Seem to be doing something right."

Sherlock's hand snaked around his neck and pulled him the tiny distance needed for their lips to meet. His tongue darted, delivering tiny laps until Greg opened for him, letting him slip inside and caress the interior of his mouth. Greg increased the pressure, tilting his head to get a better angle and moaning softly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that yet again Sherlock had taken charge, but he didn't mind when kissing him properly felt so damn good.

"I've waited years for this," Sherlock said softly, shivering at the greedy nips Greg was making down his neck towards his collar bone. The older man's fingers stilled in the act of unbuttoning the detective's shirt.

"Years?"

He sought out Sherlock's eyes gleaming in the dark.

"Since the first time you dragged me back to the land of the living. It made me curious to know what it would be like to be more than just an irritation to you."

"You're not an irritation. Well not always. Just most of the time." He punctuated each short sentence with a light kiss on Sherlock's exposed skin.

"Shut up. I'm trying to be romantic, or whatever, in the only way I know. I'm trying to tell you I was always glad it was you who came for me, and I always wanted to make it back for you even when it felt too difficult."

"You got well for the work, so I would let you carry on at Scotland Yard."

"Will you shut up and let me speak because none of this is easy to say? You never gave up on me and I needed that from you, even though I made it clear at the time I didn't want it."

Sherlock had become serious, a tiny frown creasing his forehead just above his nose in an adorable way. His earnest manner was sweet and Greg felt bad for teasing him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It wouldn't have made a difference Greg, not then." Sherlock gripped his jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Only now matters."

He kissed him fiercely, plundering Greg's mouth with his tongue and nipping at his lower lip with his teeth, until Greg was forced to pull away just to catch his breath. _Crikey, the man could flip his mood by the second. It was intoxicating to never quite know what was coming next._

"I want one of these."

Sherlock's fingers traced over the tender bruise on Greg's neck that Kate had begun and he'd added to. He extended his neck presenting it for Greg's attention. The policeman grinned, dipping his head to suck hungrily at the pale skin until there was a large dark purple stain, and Sherlock was wriggling enthusiastically beneath him. Greg sat up abruptly, almost toppling off the bed in the process, grabbing at Sherlock to save himself from the inevitable bump. His fingers wrenched at the detective's shirt straining the remaining buttons until they popped free and shot across the room.

"Well that's one way of undressing me, though I was rather fond of that shirt," he chuckled.

"Bugger the shirt," laughed Greg, hauling his t-shirt over his head and dumping it on the floor, leaving him only in his pants and thinking Sherlock was still wearing far too many clothes. "Get your kit off Holmes."

"I want you to do it."

Greg didn't need a second invitation. He clambered back onto the bed straddling the detective's thighs and deftly flicked open the fastener and tugged down the zip exposing Sherlock's straining pants. He pulled Sherlock to sit upright so he could relieve him of his shirt when there was a knock at the door and John's voice calling his name.

"_Fuck_, that man has lousy timing," Greg cursed.

"We can pretend we're not here and he might go away," Sherlock murmured against his stomach, vibrating divinely against his tanned skin.

"No bloody chance, he'll get reception to let him in. _Bloody git!_ Make yourself decent," he groaned as he snagged his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. Sherlock made a face but fastened his trousers, making sure Greg noticed him drag a finger slowly up what he was missing. "Oh god, stop it. I am _not_ putting a shirt on, I don't care if he realizes what he's interrupted."

"Greg! Are you in there?"

"Hold on, I'm coming!"

"You bloody wish!" Snorted Sherlock as Greg threw open the door and stomped back to the bed, retrieving his can of beer and nudging Sherlock over with his hip so he could settle beside him. God he looked delicious, shirt open to show off the spectacular love bite on his neck and can resting on his thigh. Cheekily Sherlock draped his arm around Greg's shoulder, pulling him close so Greg's head rested in the crook of his neck, one long finger stroking along the shell of his ear.

John entered grumbling about losing his key somewhere, not noticing that Greg wasn't alone.

"What took you so long-? Oh!"

"Yeah, we were in the middle of something." Greg muttered sheepishly into Sherlock's neck, a bit embarrassed now John was actually in the room.

"O-Kay. So you um... Happened. How was that? Er, sorry, inappropriate question."

"I'm sure Greg can bring you up to date," said Sherlock standing and shoving his feet into his shoes. He left his socks on the floor as usual, John noted. "I've got something I need to do before tomorrow, so I'll see you in the morning." He bent down and laid his lips briefly against Greg's. He tasted of cold beer and faint cigarettes. "Actually, fancy a smoke?"

Five minutes later they were cuddled outside in the car park sheltering from the wind under the smokers' canopy. Sherlock perched on the high bench seat; his long legs outstretched either side of Greg's, smoking and kissing. Greg's hand explored Sherlock's chest under the ruined shirt, tweaking and rolling his nipples until the detective groaned at him to stop. He had one hand jammed down the back of Sherlock's trousers, the other roaming over his chilled skin when Sherlock whispered against his throat, "If you don't stop I am _seriously_ going to do you right here and now in the sodding car park."

Greg laughed and nibbled at his collarbone. "God, if I was twenty years younger...

"You still wouldn't let me. Come on, we should say goodnight. I really want to take you to bed but I want to take my time, and _you_ need sleep more than sex."

"Okay," sighed Greg. "This isn't you backing out on me again is it?"

"Needy. And _hell_ no, I've needed you for the best part of ten years. I want to show you how much."

"What changed? I mean, why now?"

"You kissed me and it made me _feel_. I still don't think it's a good thing but I'm willing to explore it. It'll probably end badly."

"Do you have to be so positive about it?" Greg joked.

"I just want you to be prepared. This is not my area, but for the first time I think it may be something I want. And I think I might want it with you."

Greg hummed contentedly, snuggling against the detective inside his ridiculous coat.

"Well then, I guess we're going to have to give it a go."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: And so the conclusion of the case and this particular story :-)**

"So how's the leg?" John asked conversationally, when Greg returned.

"Not too bad, stiffness is easing."

"Really?" the doctor smirked.

"Oh go on, get it out. If it wasn't for you I'd have got laid tonight you bastard. Well, if we hadn't done ourselves an injury first. Single beds aren't great for sex when you're not a student anymore."

"Seriously? Scotland Yard's finest and a bloody genius didn't think to use _Sherlock's room which has a double bed you could use without interruption_? Got carried away presumably. So tell me again how it's my fault you didn't get it on?"

"Ah! I guess it wasn't exactly planned. I'm just going to…"

John held up his hands, warding off whatever he thought Greg was referring to, with a smirk.

"Please, whatever. Just be quiet about it yeah? I _would_ like some sleep tonight."

Sherlock was correct, he really did need sleep more than strenuous activity, which was probably another indication that he wasn't as young as he used to be. He just hoped that he'd be able to keep up with the younger man, now it seemed they were really going to do something about the attraction that had been simmering for the last three weeks. Sherlock didn't seem worried, so maybe he should stop stressing over it too. He was pretty fit still. The aches in his body at the moment had more to do with the beating he'd suffered than his age. Feeling slightly more cheerful he stepped under the hot shower and took care of the one remaining thing that would prevent him sleeping.

John was already snoring when he stepped back into the bedroom. He could slip out, across the corridor and knock on Sherlock's door - he knew the detective would still be wide awake - but then he'd just ensured it would be an hour or two before he was good to go again. Smiling to himself resignedly he slipped under the duvet and picked up his phone to check he'd set his alarm. There was a text message from Sherlock.

_I'll try hard not to be too irritating in future - SH_

Greg chuckled, wondering if Sherlock's habit of signing his initials at the end of his text messages would change if this became a proper relationship. He typed a message back, worried the kiss would be too much but sending it anyway.

_Thanks for trying. I'll try to be more tolerant. G x_

_Go to sleep and stop worring - SH x_

A message from Sherlock wouldn't be right without those initials he thought.

* * *

The next morning Greg and John were leaning against the car chatting quietly when Sherlock swept up, coat flying and eyes wild. Greg noticed that he was wearing his shirt with two extra buttons undone, proudly displaying the massive bruise on his neck that marked him as belonging to someone. It gave Greg a massive kick to know it was him.

"I remember what was missing from Josie's noticeboard," he declared gleefully. "It was the vampire film that brought it to mind. Darksiders! There was a flyer pinned on the bottom corner for a website called Darksiders. I joined up last night as an author. They collaborate on dark fiction that explores death and dying, suicide a specialty, and run by none other than Dante."

"Let me guess - black screen, white rose, puddle of blood? We think Josie was a member. Kate is getting us access today."

"So why are we not on our way already?"

"Because, you idiot, we were waiting for you," Greg said fondly.

Sherlock snatched the ignition keys from him, opening the passenger door with a flourish and closing it once the DI had settled himself into the passenger seat. John looked amused at this strangely chivalrous act from the detective.

"I have to get my own door then? No special treatment for the blogger, just the boyfriend?"

Sherlock tugged the rear door open, standing to attention.

"If you'd care to get your arse into the car Watson, we can be our way. There's a crime to be solved you know?"

The atmosphere in the office was entirely different with a jovial and excited Sherlock bouncing around the place. He even deigned to have a proper conversation with Kate, although Greg noted the detective touched him on the arm numerous times reasserting his position as lover, and at one point even gripped his hand briefly. Kate thought it was highly amusing of course, and when Sherlock bounded off to the coffee machine with John she grinned at the DI and asked "finally?"

"I think so. Giving it a go anyway."

She kissed his cheek and wished him luck, genuinely pleased for him.

"Let me know how it goes. I want all the gory details."

The login access for the website was approved and Sherlock spent half an hour browsing before he declared he had seen enough, and was ready to solve the case for them. Greg and John exchanged a grin.

At three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon he called everyone together in the office to unveil his findings. In typically dramatic style he paced the tiny office two steps forward, two back, waving his arms and delivering deductions at a rate of knots. Greg only listened to half his exposition, too distracted by the way he moved to focus on his words. He loved to see him like this; he always had, he realized, for as long as he'd known the detective. He'd seen the man at his lowest ebb, high on coke or heroin - sometimes both - and filthy from days lying on a grimy mattress in some crack house or other. Once he'd even carried him practically comatose from a dilapidated house and had driven him to A&E to have his infected arm treated and his crashing come-down managed. He always forgave him and welcomed him back to the Yard when he was well because he needed his help, but he needed to know this brilliant man was safe even more. Funny how in all that time Sherlock had needed him but had kept it well hidden.

"Are you listening Lestrade? Am I boring you?"

God, it was probably his over active imagination, but his name sounded wicked whenever it fell from Sherlock's lips now. He flushed, looking up into Sherlock's annoyed expression. He was about to apologise when the detective gave him a mischievous wink.

"Get on with it you clown. Christ, we'll all be asleep before you get around to telling us how he did it."

"Daniel Taylor has wasted a great deal of police time. Josie Long was not murdered at all, the original conclusion was correct. There's an outside chance her death may have been suicide but was most likely a tragic accident - too much alcohol, combined with sleeping pills and a hot bubble bath. Who puts bath oil into a bath in which they intend to die? I can find no evidence at all to suggest Josie would end her life - had she been suicidal _someone_ would have noticed, but everyone without exception said how happy and positive she was, and how enthusiastic she was in her studies. She wasn't lonely or isolated, had a great social life, and was making plans for the future. She was passionate about her hobby though - writing - and was keen to explore dark fiction, which is how she came to know Daniel Taylor. His website was created for authors who loved to write about death and the futility of living. Josie's 'suicide note' was one such piece, her collaborator none other than Dante himself. "

"So why claim he killed her?"

"Notoriety probably. Possibly some misguided stunt to drum up publicity for his website by using Josie's death. There was no foul play here, just an immature man's desire to be in the spotlight for a murder that was never committed in the first place. His lack of compassion is astounding."

"I'm glad in a way," Kate said. "It's been hard enough for Josie's family dealing with the original verdict without all this. It's good to know we didn't miss something and get it terribly wrong. I'll see he's brought in and we'll see what we can charge the little shit with."

* * *

By seven in the evening they were in a city centre pub well on their way to being merry. Greg had discovered it had an excellent jukebox stuffed full of British punk and early eighties pop classics, and had dropped almost ten pounds into it selecting his favourite tracks, including the one he'd come to think of as 'their song'. Not that he'd admit that to anyone, not even his- boyfriend? Lover? More than a one night stand, that's for sure. Sherlock found the place rowdy and bewildering, but whenever he looked lost or uneasy Greg would seize him in a passionate snog and he'd be ok for a while. No one paid them any attention this time. John, Patten and Kate had found a table in the corner and were chatting about life in general, leaving Sherlock and Greg to slip out into the beer garden to share a cigarette.

"You know I'm going to mess this up, don't you? I will refuse to change and you'll get frustrated and it'll all end before it's even begun properly. You'll still let me work if that happens, won't you?"

Greg smiled at the anxiety in the detective's tone, happy to know he wasn't the only one with fears. He couldn't in all honesty see how they were going to make it work but it felt like an exciting challenge to be met head on, rather than an intimidating obstacle to be avoided.

"God help me, I need you at the Yard. If it comes to the worst, I'll make you work with Donovan."

"That's dreadful, but it's one way of making me try harder I suppose. Can we not mention it at the Yard yet?"

"Fine by me. You get enough abuse, you don't need extra shit for dating me. Complicates things at work."

"I'm not ashamed, if that's what you're thinking? Is that what we're doing though? Dating?"

Greg hugged him, plucking the cigarette from his lips so it wouldn't waggle ash all over him as Sherlock spoke. He finished it, not speaking for a minute or two. Sherlock almost vibrated with anxiety beside him, waiting for a response.

"We're feeling our way through something new. If we cock it up then we'll get over it. If we don't, then one day in the future we'll be comfortable sharing it."

Sherlock kissed him, the bitter taste of smoke tainting their lips. His hand slipped into the back pocket of Greg's jeans in a familiar way, and they returned to the rest of their group inside like that.

"Why are you smiling?" Sherlock asked curiously.

Greg wound his arms around the other's waist and kissed his neck over the second beautiful mark he'd made on his ivory skin just below his ear.

"Because Mr Holmes, there's this fucking gorgeous bloke I know who has a room to himself and a comfortable double bed, and if he's really good he might get to share it tonight."

"Maybe we should slope off now _Lestrade_ and see just how good I can be?"

Greg chuckled at the husky use of his name. It was tempting but he wanted to stay for a while to celebrate the successful conclusion of their visit north. He would also have to make time to say goodbye to Kate as they would be setting off for home early the next day. One or two drinks always seemed to help them get over their inhibitions too...

"Patience love, we have all the time in the world."

The End. Maybe.


End file.
